PS 

IZ.O  I 


AIRS    FROM   ARCADY 
AND    ELSEWHERE. 


AIRS  FROM  ARCADY 


AND    ELSEWHERE 


UNNER 


A  Book  of  Verses  underneath,  the  Bough, 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread,  and  Thai. 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness  — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enovi  ! 

—  Omar  Khayyam 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1886 


Copyright,  1884,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


TO  . 

'BY  THE 


The  night  is  late  ;  your  fire  is  -whitening  fast, 
Our  speech  has  silent  spaces,  and  is  low  ; 
Yet  there  is  much  to  say  before  I  go  — 

And  much  is  left  -unsaid,  dear  frie7id,  at  last. 

Yet  something  may  be  said.     This  fading  fire 
Was  never  cold  for  me  ;  and  never  cold 
Has  been  the  welcoming  glance  I  knew  of  old  — 

Warm  with  a  friendship  iisage  could  not  tire. 

The  kindly  hand  has  never  failed  me  yet, 
And  never  yet  has  failed  the  cheering  word; 
Nor  ever  went  Perplexity  unheard, 

But  ever  was  by  thoughtful  Counsel  met. 

The  plans  we  made,  the  hopes  we  nursed,  have  fed 
These  friendly  embers  with  a  genial  fire. 
Not  till  my  spirit  ceases  to  aspire 

Shall  their  kind  light  within  my  heart  be  dead. 

Take  these,  the  gathered  songs  of  striving  years, 
And  many  fledged  and  warmed  beside  your  hearth  ; 
Not  for  whatever  they  may  have  of  worth  — 

A  simpler  tie,  perchance,  my  work  endears. 

With  them  this  wish  :  that  when  your  days  shall  close, 
Life,  a  well-used  and  well-contented  guest, 
May  gently  press  the  hand  I  oft,  have  pressed, 

And  leave  you  by  Love's  fire  to  calm  repose. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

DEDICATION— To  B.  M v 


THE  WAY  TO  ARCADY 3 

O  HONEY  OF  HYMETTUS  HILL     . 8 

DAPHNIS 9 

THE  HOUR  OF  SHADOWS n 

ROBIN'S  SONG 12 

A  LOST  CHILD 14 


'PHILIST1A. 

DA  CAPO 19 

GONE 22 

JUST  A  LOVE-LETTER 23 

SHE  WAS  A  BEAUTY 27 

CANDOR 28 

"  ACCEPTED  " 30 


CONTENTS. 

^BOHEMIA. 

PAGE 

A  PITCHER  OF  MIGNONETTE 35 

POETRY  AND  THE  POET 36 

YES? 38 

A  POEM  IN  THE  PROGRAMME 40 

BETROTHED 41 

DEAD  IN  BOHEMIA — IRWIN  RUSSELL 46 


ELSEWHERE. 

HOLIDAY  HOME 49 

FORFEITS 50 

IN  SCHOOL  HOURS 51 

THE  WAIL  OF  THE  "  PERSONALLY  CONDUCTED  "     .        .        .         55 

A  CAMPAIGN  TORCH .        .        .57 

HOME,  SWEET  HOME,  WITH  VARIATIONS.     I.  .        .        .        60 

II. —  SWINBURNE -61 

III.— BRET  HARTS 63 

IV. —  HORACE  —  AUSTIN  DOBSON 66 

V. —  GOLDSMITH  —  POPE 67 

VI.— WALT  WHITMAN    .  .    68 


ULTIMA    THULE. 

FORTY 77 

STRONG  AS  DEATH 80 

DEAF 82 

LES   MORTS   VONT  VlTE 83 

DISASTER 84 

SEPTEMBER  .  86 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THEN 87 

THE  APPEAL  TO  HAROLD 88 

To  A  DEAD  WOMAN 91 

THE  OLD  FLAG .    92 

FROM  A  COUNTING-HOUSE 94 

To  A  HYACINTH  PLUCKED  FOR  DECORATION  DAY      .        .        -95 

LONGFELLOW 96 

FOR  THE  FIRST  PAGE  OF  THE  ALBUM 98 

FAREWELL  TO  SALVINI 99 

ON  READING  A  POET'S  FIRST  BOOK    ...  .        .  100 

FEMININE i°2 

REDEMPTION i°3 

TRIUMPH 104 

To  HER  .  106 


NOTES i°7 


ARCADIA. 


THE   WAY   TO   ARCADY. 

,  what 's  the  way  to  A  ready, 
To  A  ready,  to  A  ready  ; 
Oh,  ivhat  'j  the  way  to  Arcady, 
Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry? 

Oh,  what 's  the  way  to  Arcady  ? 
The  spring  is  rustling  in  the  tree  — 
The  tree  the  wind  is  blowing  through  - 

It  sets  the  blossoms  flickering  white. 
I  knew  not  skies  could  burn  so  blue 

Nor  any  breezes  blow  so  light. 
They  blow  an  old-time  way  for  me, 
Across  the  world  to  Arcady. 

Oh,  what 's  the  way  to  Arcady  ? 

Sir  Poet,  with  the  rusty  coat, 

Quit  mocking  of  the  song-bird's  note. 

3 


ARCADIA. 

How  have  you  heart  for  any  tune, 
You  with  the  wayworn  russet  shoon  ? 
Your  scrip,  a-swinging  by  your  side, 
Gapes  with  a  gaunt  mouth  hungry-wide. 
I'll  brim  it  well  with  pieces  red, 
If  you  will  tell  the  way  to  tread. 


Oh,  I  am  bound  for  Arcady, 
And  if  you  but  keep  pace  with  me 
You  tread  the  way  to  A  ready. 


And  where  away  lies  Arcady, 

And  how  long  yet  may  the  journey  be? 


Ah,  that  (quoth  he)  /  do  not  know — 
Across  the  clover  and  the  snow — 
Across  the  frost,  across  the  flowers  — 
Through  summer  seconds  and  winter  hours. 
I  've  trod  the  way  my  -whole  life  long, 

And  know  not  now  where  it  may  be.; 
My  guide  is  but  the  stir  to  song, 
That  tells  me  I  can  not  go  wrong, 

Or  clear  or  dark  the  pathway  be 

Upon  the  road  to  Arcady. 


^ARCADIA. 

But  how  shall  I  do  who  can  not  sing  ? 

I  was  wont  to  sing,  once  on  a  time 

There  is  never  an  echo  now  to  ring 

Remembrance  back  to  the  trick  of  rhyme. 

'T  is  strange  you  cannot  sing  (quoth  he), 
The  folk  all  sing  in  A  ready. 

But  how  may  he  find  Arcady 
Who  hath  nor  youth  nor  melody  ? 


What,  know  you  not,  old  man  (quoth  he) 

Your  hair  is  white,  your  face  is  wise  — 
That  Love  must  kiss  that  Mortal's  eyes 

Who  hopes  to  see  fair  Arcady? 

No  gold  can  buy  you  entrance  there ; 

But  beggared  Love  may  go  all  bare — 

No  wisdom  won  with  weariness  ; 

But  Love  goes  in  with  Folly's  dress — • 

No  fame  that  wit  could  ever  win  ; 

But  only  Love  may  lead  Love  in 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady. 

Ah,  woe  is  me,  through  all  my  days 
Wisdom  and  wealth  I  both  have  got, 

And  fame  and  name,  and  great  men's  praise; 
But  Love,  ah,  Love  !  I  have  it  not. 

5 


^ARCADIA. 

There  was  a  time,  when  life  was  new  — 

But  far  away,  and  half  forgot  — 
I  only  know  her  eyes  were  blue ; 

But  Love  —  I  fear  I  knew  it  not. 
We  did  not  wed,  for  lack  of  gold, 
And  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  old. 
All  things  have  come  since  then  to  me, 
Save  Love,  ah,  Love !  and  Arcady. 

Ah,  then  I  fear  we  part  (quoth  he), 
My  way  's  for  Love  and  Arcady. 

But  you,  you  fare  alone,  like  me ; 

The  gray  is  likewise  in  your  hair. 

What  love  have 'you  to  lead  you  there, 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady? 

Ah,  no,  not  lonely  do  I  fare  ; 

My  true  companion  's  Memory. 
With  Love  he  fills  the  Spring-time  air  ; 

With  Love  he  clothes  the   Whiter  tree. 
Oh,  past  this  poor  horizon's  bound 

My  song  goes  straight  to  one  who  stands  - 
Her  face  all  gladdening  at  the  sound — 

To  lead  me  to  the  Spring-green  lands, 
To  wander  with  enlacing  hands. 

6 


ARCADIA. 

The  songs  within  my  breast  that  stir 

Are  all  of  her,  are  all  of  her. 

My  maid  is  dead  long  years  (quoth  he), 

She  waits  for  me  in  A  ready. 

Oh,  yon  's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady; 
Oh,  yon  's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry. 


O    HONEY    OF    HYMETTUS    HILL. 

RONDEL. 

\Dobson 's  Variation.] 

O   HONEY  of  Hymettus  Hill, 
Gold-brown,  and  cloying  sweet  to  taste, 
Wert  here  for  the  soft  amorous  bill 
Of  Aphrodite's  courser  placed? 

Thy  musky  scent  what  virginal  chaste 
Blossom  was  ravished  to  distill, 
O  honey  of  Hymettus  Hill, 

Gold-brown,  and  cloying  sweet  to  taste  ? 

What  upturned  calyx  drank  its  fill 

When  ran  the  draught  divine  to  waste, 

That  her  white  hands  were  doomed  to  spill  — 
Sweet  Hebe,  fallen  and  disgraced  — 

O  honey  of  Hymettus  Hill, 

Gold-brown,  and  cloying  sweet  to  taste  ? 


DAPHNIS. 


ERE  the  spring  comes,  we  will  go 
Where  belated  lines  of  snow 
Lie  in  wreathlets  chilly  bright 
Round  the  wind-flowers  pink  and  white. 
Trembling  even  as  you,  my  own, 
In  my  arms  about  you  thrown ; 
Where  pale  sheets  of  ice  like  glass 
Fleck  the  marshland's  greening  grass ; 
Where  beneath  the  budding  trees 
Dead  leaves  wait  for  April's  breeze  — 
Chloe,  Chloe,  we  will  wander 
Hither,  thither,  here  and  yonder. 
Seeing  you,  the  jealous  Spring 
Sure  will  haste  a  laggard  wing, 

Though  the  upland  plains  are  snowy, 
Though  the  snow  is  on  the  plain  — 

Chloe,   Chloe,  Chloe,   Chloe! 
But  she  answers  not  again. 

9 


ARCADIA. 
II. 

Chloe,  lo !  the  Spring  is  here, 

All  the  wintry  walks  are  clear; 

Prismy  purple  is  the  air 

Round  the  branches  brown  and  bare ; 

Purple  are  the  doubtful  dyes 

Of  the  clouds  in  April's  skies  — 

Come,  and  make  last  Summer  stretch 

Over  half  a  year,  and  fetch 

Smells  of  rose  and  violet 

In  the  barren  ways  to  set. 

See,  the  wood  remembering  misses 

Sweetness  of  our  last  year's  kisses. 

O'er  the  place  where  once  we  kist 

Falls  a  vail  of  rainy  mist  — 

Tangled  rain-sheets,  wreathed  and  blowy 
There  is  weeping  in  the  rain  — 

Chloe,   Chloe,   Chloe,   Chloe .' 
Ah  !  she  answers  not  again  ! 


THE    HOUR    OF    SHADOWS.1 

UPON  that  quiet  day  that  lies 
Where  forest  branches  screen  the  skies, 
The  spirit  of  the  eve  has  laid 
A  deeper  and  a  dreamier  shade;    • 
And  winds  that  through  the  tree-tops  blow 
Wake  not  the  silent  gloom  below, 

Only  the  sound  of  far-off  streams, 
Faint  as  our  dreams  of  childhood's  dreams, 
Wandering  in  tangled  pathways  crost, 
Like  woodland  truants  strayed  and  lost, 
Their  faint,  complaining  echoes  roam, 
Threading  the  forest  toward  their  home. 

O  brooks,  I  too  have  gone  astray, 

And  left  my  comrade  on  the  way  — 

Guide  me  through  aisles  where  soft   you  moan, 

To  some  sad  spot  you  know  alone, 

Where  only  leaves  and  nestlings  stir, 

And  I  may  dream,  and  dream  of  Her. 


ROBIN'S    SONG. 

Warwickshire,  1 6 — . 

UP,  up,  my  heart !    up,  up,  my  heart, 
This  day  was  made  for  thee ! 
For  soon  the  hawthorn  spray  shall  part, 

And  thou  a  face  shalt  see 
That  comes,  O  heart,  O  foolish  heart, 
This  way  to  gladden  thee. 

The  grass  shows  fresher  on  the  way 
That  soon  her  feet  shall  tread — 

The  last  year's  leaflet  curled  and  gray, 
I  could  have  sworn  was  dead, 

Looks  green,  for  lying  in  the  way 
I  know  her  feet  will  tread. 


ARCADIA. 

What  hand  yon  blossom  curtain  stirs, 

More  light  than  errant  air? 
I  know  the  touch  —  'tis  hers,  'tis  hers! 

She  parts  the  thicket  there  — 
The  flowered  branch  her  coming  stirs 

Hath  perfumed  all  the  air. 

The  Springs  of  all  forgotten  years 

Are  waked  to  life  anew  — 
Up,  up,  my  eyes,  nor  fill  with  tears 

As  tender  as  the  dew — 
I  knew  her  not  in  all  those  years ; 

But  life  begins  anew. 

Up,  up,  my  heart !  up,  up,  my  heart, 

This  day  was  made  for  thee! 
Come,  Wit,  take  on  thy  nimblest  art, 

And  win  Love's  victory  — 
What  now?     Where  art  thou,  coward  heart? 

Thy  hour  is  here  —  and  She  ! 


A   LOST   CHILD. 

YE    CRYER. 

T    T  ERE  'S  a  reward  for  who  'II  find  Love! 
J.    J.         Love  is  a-straying 

Ever  since  Maying, 
Hither  and  yon,  below,  above; 

All  are  seeking  Love! 


YE    HAND- BILL. 

Gone  astray — between  the  Maying 
And  the  gathering  of  the  hay, 

LOVE,  an  urchin  ever  playing — 
Folk  are  warned  against  his  play. 

How  may  you  know  him  ?     By  the  quiver, 
By  the  bow  he  's  wont  to  bear. 

First  on  your  left  there  comes  a  shiver, 

Then  a  twinge  —  the  arrow's  there. 

14 


^ARCADIA, 

By  his  eye  of  pansy  color, 

Deep  as  wounds  he  dealeth  free ; 

If  its  hue  have  faded  duller, 
"T  is  not  that  he  weeps  for  me. 

By  the  smile  that  curls  his  mouthlet; 

By  the  mockery  of  his  sigh ; 
By  his  breath,  a  spicy  South,  let 

Slip  his  lips  of  roses  by. 

By  the  devil  in  his  dimple ; 

By  his  lies  that  sound  so  true ; 
By  his  shaft-sting,  that  no  simple 

Ever  culled  will  heal  for  you. 

By  his  beckonings  that  embolden ; 

By  his  quick  withdrawings  then  ; 
By  his  flying  hair,  a  golden 

Light  to  lure  the  feet  of  men. 

By  the  breast  where  ne'er  a  hurt  '11 
Rankle  'neath  his  kerchief  hid  — 

What  ?  you  cry ;  he  wore  a  kirtle  f 
Faith  !  methinks  the  rascal  did  ! 


Here's  a  reward  for  who'll  find  Love  ! 

Love  is  a-straying 

Ever  since  Maying  ; 
Hither  and  yon,  below,  above, 

I  am  seeking  Love. 

Cryer:  H.  Bunner:  ye  Finder  pray'd 

_  c,"*  StE?t!  to  Bring  her  to 

Cry  i  Weddings : 

Buryings :   Loft 

Childn,  and  right  MASTER  CORYDON, 

cheaplie. 

Ye  lid  Knocker:  Petticoat  Lane. 


PHILISTIA. 


DA  CAPO. 

SHORT  and  sweet,  and  we  Ve  come  to  the  end  of  it- 
Our  poor  little  love  lying  cold. 
Shall  no  sonnet,  then,  ever  be  penned  of  it  ? 

Nor  the  joys  and  pains  of  it  told  ? 
How  fair  was  its  face  in  the  morning, 

How  close  its  caresses  at  noon, 
How  its  evening  grew  chill  without  warning, 
Unpleasantly  soon  ! 

I  can't  say  just  how  we  began  it  — 

In  a  blush,  or  a  smile,  or  a  sigh  ; 
Fate  took  but  an  instant  to  plan  it ; 

It  needs  but  a  moment  to  die. 
Yet — remember  that  first  conversation, 

When  the  flowers  you  had  dropped  at  your  feet 
I  restored.     The  familiar  quotation 

Was — "Sweets  to  the  sweet." 
19 


THILISTIA. 

Oh,  their  delicate  perfume  has  haunted 

My  senses  a  whole  season  through. 
If  there  was  one  soft  charm  that  you  wanted 

The  violets  lent  it  to  you. 
I  whispered  you,  life  was  but  lonely : 

A  cue  which  you  graciously  took ; 
And  your  eyes  learned  a  look  for  me  only  — 
A  very  nice  look. 

And  sometimes  your  hand  would  touch  my  hand, 

With  a  sweetly  particular  touch ; 
You  said  many  things  in  a  sigh,  and 

Made  a  look  express  wondrously  much. 
We  smiled  for  the  mere  sake  of  smiling, 

And  laughed  for  no  reason  but  fun ; 
Irrational  joys  ;  but  beguiling — 
And  all  that  is  done  ! 

We  were  idle,  and  played  for  a  moment 
At  a  game  that  now  neither  will  press : 

I  cared  not  to  find  out  what  "  No  "  meant ; 
Nor  your  lips  to  grow  yielding  with  "  Yes." 

Love  is  done  with  and  dead  ;  if  there  lingers 
A  faint  and  indefinite  ghost, 

It  is  laid  with  this  kiss  on  your  fingers  — 
A  jest  at  the  most. 


THIHSTIA. 

'Tis  a  commonplace,  stale  situation, 

Now  the  curtain  comes  down  from  above 

On  the  end  of  our  little  flirtation  — 
A  travesty  romance ;  for  Love, 

If  he  climbed  in  disguise  to  your  lattice, 
Fell  dead  of  the  first  kisses'  pain  : 

But  one  thing  is  left  us  now;   that  is  — 
Begin  it  again. 


GONE. 

SHE  stands  upon  the  steamer's  deck ; 
The  salt  wind  stings  her  cheek,  goes  by, 
Comes  back  with  kiss  of  foamy  fleck, 
And  sets  her  jaunty  hat  awry. 

I  sit  beside  the  sea-coal  glow, 

That  with  the  night  wanes  less  and  less : 
The  room  is  dark  —  my  heart  beats  slow 

With  silence,  loss,  and  loneliness. 


JUST    A    LOVE-LETTER: 

"  '  Miss  Blank  —  at  Blank.'    Jemima,  let  it  go  !  " 

—  Austin  Dob  son. 

NEW-YORK,  July  20,  1883. 
DEAR  GIRL: 

The  town  goes  on  as  though 
It  thought  you  still  were  in  it; 
The  gilded  cage  seems  scarce  to  know 

That  it  has  lost  its  linnet ; 
The  people  come,  the  people  pass ; 

The  clock  keeps  on  a-ticking : 
And  through  the  basement  plots  of  grass 
Persistent  weeds  are  pricking. 

I  thought  't  would  never  come  —  the  Spring — 

Since  you  had  left  the  City: 
But  on  the  snow-drifts  lingering 

At  last  the  skies  took  pity, 
Then  Summer's  yellow  warmed  the  sun, 

Daily  decreased  in  distance  — 
I  really  don't  know  how  't  was  done 

Without  your  kind  assistance. 
23 


THILISTIA. 

Aunt  Van,  of  course,  still  holds  the  fort : 

I've  paid  the  call  of  duty ; 
She  gave  me  one  small  glass  of  port  — 

'Twas  '34  and  fruity. 
The  furniture  was  draped  in  gloom 

Of  linen  brown  and  wrinkled ; 
I  smelt  in  spots  about  the  room 

The  pungent  camphor  sprinkled. 

I  sat  upon  the  sofa,  where 

You  sat  and  dropped  your  thimble  — 
You  know  —  you  said  you  did  n't  care ; 

But  I  was  nobly  nimble. 
On  hands  and  knees  I  dropped,  and  tried 

To  —  well,   I  tried  to  miss  it : 
You  slipped  your  hand  down  by  your  side 

You  knew  I  meant  to  kiss  it ! 

Aunt  Van,  I  fear  we  put  to  shame 

Propriety  and  precision  : 
But,  praised  be  Love,  that  kiss  just  came 

Beyond  your  line  of  vision. 
Dear  maiden  aunt !  the  kiss,  more  sweet 

Because  't  is  surreptitious, 
You  never  stretched  a  hand  to  meet, 

So  dimpled,  dear,  delicious. 
24 


THILISTIA. 

I  sought  the  Park  last  Saturday ; 

I  found  the  Drive  deserted ; 
The  water-trough  beside  the  way 

Sad  and  superfluous  spurted. 
I  stood  where  Humboldt  guards  the  gate 

Bronze,  bumptious,  stained  and  streaky 
There  sat  a  sparrow  on  his  pate, 

A  sparrow  chirp  and  cheeky. 

Ten  months  ago  !  ten  months  ago !  — 

It  seems  a  happy  second, 
Against  a  life-time  lone  and  slow, 

By  Love's  wild  time-piece  reckoned — 
You  smiled,  by  Aunt's  protecting  side, 

Where  thick  the  drags  were  massing, 
On  one  young  man  who  did  n't  ride, 

But  stood  and  watched  you  passing. 

I  haunt  Purssell's  —  to  his  amaze  — 

Not  that  I  care  to  eat  there  ; 
But  for  the  dear  clandestine  days 

When  we  two  had  to  meet  there. 
Oh,  blessed  is  that  baker's  bake, 

Past  cavil  and  past  question ; 
I  ate  a  bun  for  your  sweet  sake, 

And  Memory  helped  Digestion. 
25 


THIHST1A. 

The  Norths  are  at  their  Newport  ranch  ; 

Van  Brunt  has  gone  to  Venice  ; 
Loomis  invites  me  to  the  Branch, 

And  lures  me  with  lawn-tennis. 

0  bustling  barracks  by  the  sea  ! 
O  spiles,  canals,  and  islands ! 

Your  varied  charms  are  naught  to  me  — 
My  heart  is  in  the  Highlands ! 

My  paper  trembles  in  the  breeze 

That  all  too  faintly  flutters 
Among  the  dusty  city  trees, 

And  through  my  half-closed  shutters  : 
A  northern  captive  in  the  town, 

Its  native  vigor  deadened, 

1  hope  that,  as  it  wandered  down, 
Your  dear  pale  cheek  it  reddened. 

I  '11  write  no  more.     A  vis-a-vis 

In  halcyon  vacation 
Will  sure  afford  a  much  more  free 

Mode  of  communication ; 
I  'm  tantalized  and  cribbed  and  checked 

In  making  love  by  letter: 
I  know  a  style  more  brief,  direct  — 

And  generally  better! 
26 


SHE  WAS   A   BEAUTY. 

RONDEL. 

SHE  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 
When  Madison  was  President : 
And  quite  coquettish  in  her  ways  — 
On  conquests  of  the  heart  intent. 

Grandpapa,  on  his  right  knee  bent, 
Wooed  her  in  stiff,  old-fashioned  phrase  — 
She  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 

When  Madison  was  President. 

And  when  your  roses  where  hers  went 
Shall  go,  my  Rose,  who  date  from  Hayes, 

I  hope  you  '11  wear  her  sweet  content 
Of  whom  tradition  lightly  says : 
She  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 

When  Madison  was  President. 


CANDOR. 

OCTOBER— A   WOOD. 

"  I    KNOW  what  you  're  going  to  say,"  she  said, 
1      And  she  stood  up  looking  uncommonly  tall; 

"  You  are  going  to  speak  of  the  hectic  Fall, 
And  say  you  're  sorry  the  summer  's  dead. 
And  no  other  summer  was  like  it,  you  know, 
And  can  I  imagine  what  made  it  so? 
Now  aren't  you,  honestly?"     "Yes,"  I  said. 

"  I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say,"  she  said; 
"  You  are  going  to  ask  if  I  forget 

That  day  in  June  when  the  woods  were  wet, 
And  you  carried  me  "—  here  she  dropped  her  head- 
"  Over  the  creek;  you  are  going  to  say, 

Do  1  remember  that  horrid  day. 
Now  aren't  you,  honestly?"     "Yes,"  I  said. 

"  I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say,"  she  said; 
"  You  are  going  to  say  that  since  that  time 
You  have  rather  tended  to  run  to  rhyme, 

28 


THILIST1A. 

And  " —  her  clear  glance  fell  and  her  cheek  grew  red  - 
"  And  have  I  noticed  your  tone  was  queer? — 

Why,  everybody  has  seen  it  here  !  — 
Now,  aren't  you,  honestly?"     "Yes,"  I  said. 

"  I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say,"  I  said  ; 

"  You  're  going  to  say  you  Ve  been  much  annoyed, 

And  I  'm  short  of  tact  —  you  will  say  devoid  — 
And  I  'm  clumsy  and  awkward,  and  call  me  Ted, 
And  I  bear  abuse  like  a  dear  old  lamb, 
And  you  '11  have  me,  anyway,  just  as  I  am. 
Now  are  n't  you,  honestly  ?  " 

"  Ye-es,"  she  said. 


20 


"ACCEPTED." 

WE  were  walking  home  from  meeting,  in  the  calm 
old  country  street, 
Where  only  a  glimmer  of  moonlight  through  the  arch 

of  the  elms  came  down, 
And   wakened   the   twinkling   shadows   that   played   with 

her  little  feet  — 

Played  hide-and-seek  with  the   little   feet  that  peeped 
from  beneath  her  gown. 

There   are   things  that  a  girl  should  n't  think,  and  cer 
tainly  should  n't  say  — 

But    when   she   says   them   to  you,    the    difference    it 
makes  is  queer. 

And  the  touch  of  her  hand  on  my  sleeve  seemed  to  ask, 
in  a  soft,   shy  way : 

"  Can't   you  put  your  arm  around  me,  or  is  n't  it  dark 
enough  here  ? " 


'PHILISTIA. 

A    man    does  n't   let   that    chance    slip   by   him  beyond 

recall ; 

But   I   felt    that    it  would    n't    do,    after    much    con 
sidering — 
Her  parents  were  just  ahead,  which  did  n't  concern  me 

at  all  — 

But   her   younger  brother  behind  us  —  ah,  that  was  a 
different  thing ! 

We   reached   the   dear   old   homestead   the   moon   made 

tenderly  white, 
And  stood  on  the  broad  front  porch,  and  all  of  them 

lingered  to  chat 
Of    how    the    soprano    had    sung    and    the    parson    had 

preached  that  night, 

And  how   the  widow   was   out   in   another  scandalous 
hat. 

A  look  of  appeal  from  me,  and  a  wonderful  glance  from 

her, 
And  we  slipped  away  from   the  crowd,  unnoticed  and 

swift  and  still  — 
I    think   't  was   the    flower-beds  I  crossed ;  but  I  did  n't 

care  if  it  were  — 

And   she   went  back   through  the   house,  and  we  met 
at  the  window-sill. 

31 


THILISTIA. 

At  the  window  around  the  corner,  with  never  a  soul  to  see !  — 
And  I  stood  on  the  grass  below,  and   she   bent  down 

from  above, 
And   the   honeysuckles   were   round  us  as  she  stretched 

her  arms  to  me, 

And  our  lips  met  there  in  a  new,  new  kiss  —  our  be 
trothal  gift  from  Love. 


BOHEMIA. 


A   PITCHER  OF   MIGNONETTE. 

TRIOLET. 

A  PITCHER  of  mignonette, 
In  a  tenement's  highest  casement  : 
Queer  sort  of  flower-pot  —  yet 
That  pitcher  of  mignonette 
Is  a  garden  in  heaven  set, 

To  the  little  sick  child  in  the  basement  - 
The  pitcher  of  mignonette, 

In  the  tenement's  highest  casement. 


35 


POETRY   AND   THE  POET. 

[A   SONNET.] 
(Found  on  the  Poet's  desk.) 

WEARY,  I  open  wide  the  antique  pane 
I  ope  to  the  air 
I  ope  to 
I  open  to  the  air  the  antique  pane 

(     beyond  ?    ") 

And  gaze    I  >    the    thrift  -  sown    fields    of 

(     across         ) 

wheat,    [commonplace  ?] 

A-shimmering  green  in  breezes  born  of  heat ; 
And  lo  ! 
And  high 

(   a?     ) 

And  my  soul's  eyes  behold   <  >   billowy  main 

\   the   5 

Whose  further  shore  is  Greece  strain 

again 
vain 

[Arcadia  —  mythological   allusion. —  Mem.:    Lempriere.] 
J  see  thee,  Atalanta,  vestal  fleet, 
36 


'BOHEMIA. 


And  look  !  with  doves  low-fluttering  round  her  feet, 

(  fields  of?  > 

Comes  Venus  through  the  golden  <  >    grain 

(  bowing      ) 


(Heard  by  the  Poet's  neighbor.) 

Venus  be  bothered  —  it's  Virginia  Dix  ! 

(Found  on  the  Poet's  door.) 


Out  on  important  business  —  back  at  6. 


37 


YES? 

IS  it  true,  then,  my  girl,  that  you  mean  it  — 
The  word  spoken  yesterday  night? 
Does  that  hour  seem  so  sweet  now  between  it 

And  this  has  come  day's  sober  light  ? 
Have  you  woke  from  a  moment  of  rapture 

To  remember,  regret  and  repent, 
And  to  hate,  perchance,  him  who  has  trapped  your 
Unthinking  consent  ? 

Who  was  he,  last  evening  —  this  fellow 

Whose  audacity  lent  him  a  charm  ? 
Have  you  promised  to  wed  Pulchinello  ? 

For  life  taken  Figaro's  arm  ? 
Will  you  have  the  Court  fool  of  the  papers  — 

The  clown  in  the  journalists'  ring, 
Who  earns  his  scant  bread  by  his  capers, 

To  be  your  heart's  king  ? 
38 


'BOHEMIA. 

When  we  met  quite  by  chance  at  the  theater, 

And  I  saw  you  home  under  the  moon, 
I  'd  no  thought,  love,  that  mischief  would  be  at  her 

Tricks  with  my  tongue  quite  so  soon ; 
That  I  should  forget  fate  and  fortune 

Make  a  difference  'twixt  Sevres  and  delf — 
That  I  'd  have  the  calm  nerve  to  importune 

You,  sweet,  for  yourself. 

It  's  appalling,  by  Jove,  the  audacious 

Effrontery  of  that  request ! 
But  you  —  you  grew  suddenly  gracious, 

And  hid  your  sweet  face  on  my  breast. 
Why  you  did  it  I  cannot  conjecture : 

I  surprised  you,  poor  child,  I  dare  say, 
Or  perhaps  —  does  the  moonlight  affect  your 

Head  often  that  way 

*  *  *  * 

You  're  released !     With  some  wooer  replace  me 

More  worthy  to  be  your  life's  light ; 
From  the  tablet  of  memory  efface  me, 

If  you  don't  mean  your  Yes  of  last  night. 
But  —  unless  you  are  anxious  to  see  me  a 

Wreck  of  the  pipe  and  the  cup 
In  my  birthplace  and  grave-yard,  Bohemia  — 

Love,  don't  give  me  up  ! 

39 


A   POEM   IN   THE   PROGRAMME. 

A    THOUSAND  fans  are  fretting  the  hot  air; 
/V     Soft  swells  the  music  of  the  interlude 

Above  the  murmurous  hum  of  talk  subdued ; 
But  from  the  noise  withdrawn  and  from  the  glare, 
Deep  in  the  shadowy  box  your  coiled  hair 

Gleams  golden-bright,  with  diamonds  bedewed ; 

Your  head  is  bent ;  I  know  your  dark  eyes  brooc 
On  the  poor  sheet  of  paper  you  hold  there, 
That  quotes  my  verses  —  and  I  see  no  more 

That  bald-head  Plutus  by  your  side. 

The  seas 

Sound  in  my  ears ;   I  hear  the  rustling  pines ; 
Catch  the  low  lisp  of  billows  on  the  shore 

Where  once  I  lay  in  Knickerbockered  ease 
And  read  to  you  those  then  unprinted  lines. 


BETROTHED. 

HE  SPEAKS. 

IF  when  the  wild  and  wintry  weather 
Moans  baffled  round  your  warm  home  nest, 
And  swoops  to  pluck  the  light  foam-feather 
From  off  the  broad  bay's  heaving  breast; 
If  then  your  fancy  dim  and  dreamy 
One  careless  moment  floats  to  me, 
I  hope,  my  sweet,  you  may  not  see  me 
As  others  see. 

Amid  the  crowd  that  glooms  and  glances  — 

A  silk  sea,  islanded  with  black, 
And  vexed  with  local  storms  of  dances  — 

I,  making  slow  a  sinuous  track, 
Bow,  to  the  right,  to  Fan  or  Florry, 

Nod,  to  the  left,  to  Nell.     And  she 
Upon  my  arm,  I  should  be  sorry 
You  knew  knew  me. 
4* 


'BOHEMIA. 

The  band  above  rolls  rhythmic  thunder 
Down  on  the  whirl  and  glare  below; 

The  dusty  pine-floor  pulses  under 
The  feet  that  balance  to  and  fro. 

Oh !  dream  of  me  that  ills  afflict  me ; 
Or  dream  about  me  not  at  all ; 

But  do  not  let  your  dream  depict  me 
As  at  the  ball. 

With  eyes  that  glisten,  hands  that  tremble ; 

With  breasts  that  heave  and  cheeks  that  burn, 
The  gaudy  groups  disperse,  assemble, 

And  melt  in  other  groups  in  turn. 
Through  flush  of  paint  and  frost  of  powder, 

I  see  a  face  or  two  I  've  known, 
That,  rougeless,  donned  a  carmine  prouder 
For  me  alone. 

If  this  were  all,  or  worst,  the  whirling 

Among  the  other  fools  a  fool  — 
But  when  I  stand  my  whiskers  twirling 

Off  by  the  lobby  window  cool  — 
And  watch  the  dance  where  death's-heads  grin  to 

Death's-heads,  bemasked,  beflowered  in  vain ; 
See  all — and  then  step  reckless  into 
That  dance  again  ! 
42 


'BOHEMIA. 

It  were  not  sin  to  sin  unthinking — 

The  drunken  sense  shall  shrive  the  soul ; 

But  when,  withdrawing  from  the  drinking, 
I  stand  with  cursed  self-control — 

Ah,  then,  forgive  me  then,  my  pure  one  ! 
Poor,  pettier  deeds  themselves  defend ; 

For  time  and  crime  combine  to  lure  one — 
And  there  's  an  end. 

But,  with  hard  eyes  that  plead  no  error, 
To  see  my  Life,  sharp-waked  from  rest  — 

And  then  to  lull  the  painted  terror 
To  smirking  slumber  on  my  breast : 

To  see,  beneath  the  rose  and  lily, 

The  black-rimmed  eye,  the  sallow  skin, 

As  clear  as  if  even  now  the  chilly 
Gray  dawn  crept  in. 

Forgive  me  that! — Who  touched  my  shoulder? 

Oh,  it  was  you,  you  ivory  fan  ? 
Dark  domino,  with  eyes  no  bolder 

Than  should  belong,  by  rights,  to  Nan. 
What  's  that  ?     Aha,  you  've  caught  me  moping  ? 

Fine  me  a  bottle  for  the  wrong  — 
A  quart  with  silvered  shoulders  sloping  — 

Well,  come  along ! 
****** 

43 


'BOHEMIA. 

The  whirl  has  changed  to  scattered  revels, 
The  glare  to  single  scattered  lights ; 

A  hot  and  fluctuant  draught  dishevels 
The  hair  of  Nancy  Late-o'-Nights. 

Her  eyes  are  largish  for  their  sockets; 
Champagney  spray  her  satin  flecks; 

And  I  am  feeling  in  my  pockets 
For  hat-room  checks. 

But,  you,  my  fair,  unconscious  sleeping, 
No  dream  of  day  disturbs  you  yet ; 

The  pale-faced  star  of  love  is  peeping 
Through  morning  skies  all  misty  wet. 

I  leave  my  partner,  flushed  and  scornful 
Of  etiquette,  to  seek  the  floor, 

/  fly,  about  that  hour  most  mournful 
Of  twenty-four. 

When  dark  has  lulled  the  day  benighted 
Till  dawn  reveals  the  last  caress, 

And  half  apart  they  draw,  affrighted 
Each  at  the  other's  ghastliness. 

When  Sleep,  with  face  as  blind  and  ashen 
As  Death's,  turns  restlessly  in  fear, 

As  knowing,  in  some  subtle  fashion, 
That  morn  is  near. 

44 


'BOHEMIA. 

With  crisping  snow  the  ground  is  whitened ; 

The  horses  doze;  the  hackmen  yawn, 
Wearily  waking;  reins  are  tightened, 

The  air  is  raw  with  coming  dawn. 
From  the  high  porch  I  raise  to  Venus 

(Whose  pallid  radiance  still  endures) 
My  curse.     The  hall-door  swings  between  us- 
My  sleep  and  yours. 

A  thousand  miles,  a  thousand  ages 

Our  dawns  are  parted,  yours  and  mine. 

For  me,  by  slow  and  and  sickly  stages, 
The  dull  light  climbs  above  the  line. 

You  see,  if  ever  dawn,  surprising 
Your  slumber,  sets  your  spirit  free, 

Across  white  plains  a  clear  sun  rising 
Above  the  sea. 


DEAD    IN    BOHEMIA. 

IRWIN   RUSSELL. 
DIED   IN   NEW   ORLEANS,    DECEMBER,    1879. 

O  MALL  was  thy  share  of  all  this  world's  delight, 
k_)   And  scant  thy  poet's  crown  of  flowers  of  praise; 

Yet  ever  catches  quaint  of  quaint  old  days 
Thou  sang'st,  and,  singing,  kept  thy  spirit  bright 
Even  as  to  lips  the  winds  of  winter  bite 

Some  outcast  wanderer  sets  his  flute  and  plays 
Till  at  his  feet  blossom  the  icy  ways, 
And  from  the  snow-drift's  bitter  wasting  white 
He  hears  the  uprising  carol  of  the  lark, 

Soaring  from  clover  seas  with  summer  ripe  — 

While  freeze  upon  his  cheek  glad,  foolish  tears. 
Ah !  let  us  hope  that  somewhere  in  thy  dark, 
Kerrick's  full  note,  and  Suckling's  pleasant  pipe 
Are  sounding  still  their  solace  in  thine  ears. 


46 


ELSEWHERE. 


47 


HOLIDAY    HOME. 

WHEN  the  Autumn  winds  nip  all  the  hill-grasses 
brown, 

And  sad  the  last  breath  of  the  Summer  in  town, 
When  the  waves  have  a  chill,  with  a  spicing  of  salt, 
That  warms  the  whole  blood  like  no  mortal-brewed  malt — 
Then  I  slip  the  dull  burdens  of  Duty's  employ  — 
New  London,  New  London,  New  London  ahoy! 

There  the  latch-string  is  out,  there  's  a  hand  at  the  doorr 
There  are  kindliest  faces  so  kindly  before  — 
Ah,  the  song  takes  a  lilt,  and  the  words  trip  with  joy, 
For  New  London,  New  London,  New  London  ahoy  ! 

When  the  Winter  lies  white  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
A  sound  's  in  my  heart  that  no  storm-wind  can  drown ; 
Through  the   mist   and   the  rain,  and  the   sleet  and  the 

snow, 

My  memory  murmurs  a  melody  low, 
Like  the  swing  of  a  song  through  the  brain  of  a  boy — 
New  London,  New  London,  New  London  ahoy ! 

49 


FORFEITS. 

THEY  sent  him  round  the  circle  fair, 
To  bow  before  the  prettiest  there. 
I  'm  bound  to  say  the  choice  he  made 
A  creditable  taste  displayed; 
Although  —  I  can't  say  what  it  meant  — 
The  little  maid  looked  ill-content. 

His  task  was  then  anew  begun  — 
To  kneel  before  the  wittiest  one. 
Once  more  that  little  maid  sought  he, 
And  went  him  down  upon  his  knee. 
She  bent  her  eyes  upon  the  floor  — 
I  think  she  thought  the  game  a  bore. 

He  circled  then  —  his  sweet  behest 
To  kiss  the  one  he  loved  the  best. 
For  all  she  frowned,  for  all  she  chid, 
He  kissed  that  little  maid,  he  did. 
And  then  —  though  why  I  can't  decide  — 
The  little  maid  looked  satisfied. 

So 


IN   SCHOOL   HOURS. 

A    REAL    ROMANCE.2 

YOU  remember  the  moments  that  come 
In  a  school-day  afternoon : 
When  the  illegitimate  hum 

Subsides  to  a  drowsy  swoon  ? 
When  the  smell  of  ink  and  slates 

Grows  oppressively  warm  and  thick ; 
Sleep  opens  her  tempting  gates ; 
And  the  clock  has  a  drowsy  tick  ? 

Forgetful  of  watch  and  rule, 

The  teacher  has  time  to  think 
Of  a  "  recess  "  in  life's  long  school ; 

Of  a  time  to  "  go  out  and  drink  " 
At  the  spring  where  the  Muse  has  sipped, 

And  laurel  and  bay-leaf  bloom  — 
And  a  contraband  note  is  slipped, 

Meanwhile,  across  the  room. 
51 


ELSEWHERE. 

From  a  trembling  hand  it  flies 

Like  a  little  white  dove  of  peace; 
And  away  on  its  mission  it  hies 

In  an  "Atlas  of  Ancient  Greece." 
And  the  sender  hides  her  face ; 

For  her  eyes  have  a  watery  shine, 
And  saline  deposits  trace 

The  recent  tear-drop's  line. 

From  the  dovecote  side  it  goes 

Across  to  the  ruder  half — 
Where  a  large  majority  shows 

A  suppressed  desire  to  laugh. 
But  the  boy  that  they  dare  not  tease 

Receives  the  crumpled  twist  — 
And  the  little  hunchback  who  sees 

Only  shakes  an  impotent  fist. 

The  boy  with  a  fair-curled  head 

Smiles  with  a  masculine  scorn, 
When  the  sad  small  note  is  read, 

With  its  straggling  script  forlorn : 
Charley,  wy  is  it  you  wont 

Forgiv  me  laughfing  at  you  ? 
I  ivil  kill  my  self  if  you  dont 

Honest  I  will  for  true  /  " 
52 


ELSEWHERE. 

He  responds :   He  is  pleased  to  find 

She  is  wiser,  at  any  rate. 
He  '11  be  happy  to  ride  behind 

The  hearse.     May  he  ask  the  date  ? 
She  reads — with  a  glittering  eye, 

And  the  look  of  an  angered  queen. 
This  were  tragic  at  thirty.     Why 

Is  it  trivial  at  thirteen  ? 

Trivial  !  what  shall  eclipse 

The  pain  of  our  childish  woes  ? 
The  rose-bud  pales  its  lips 

When  a  very  small  zephyr  blows. 
You  smile,  O  Dian,  bland, 

If  Endymion's  glance  is  cold : 
But  Despair  seems  close  at  hand 

To  that  hapless  thirteen-year-old. 
*  *  *  * 

To  the  teacher's  ears  like  a  dream 

The  school-room  noises  float  — 
Then  a  sudden  bustle  —  a  scream 

From  a  girl — "She  has  cut  her  throat!" 
And  the  poor  little  hunchbacked  chap 

From  his  corner  leaps  like  a  flash  — 
Has  her  death-like  head  in  his  lap  — 

And  his  fingers  upon  the  gash. 

53 


ELSEWHERE. 

'T  is  not  deep.     An  "eraser"  blade 

Was  the  chosen  weapon  of  death ; 
And  the  face  on  the  boy's  knee  laid 

Is  alive  with  a  fluttering  breath. 
But  faint  from  the  shock  and  fright, 

She  lies,  too  weak  to  be  stirred, 
Blood-stained,  inky  and  white, 

Pathetic,  small,  absurd. 

The  cruel  Adonis  stands 

Much  scared  and  woe-begone  now ; 
Smoothing  with  nervous  hands 

The  damp  hair  off  her  brow. 
He  is  penitent,  through  and  through ; 

And  she — she  is  satisfied. 
Knowing  my  sex  as  I  do, 

I  wish  I  could  add :  She  died. 


THE   WAIL   OF   THE    -PERSONALLY 
CONDUCTED." 

CHORUS   HEARD   ON  THE  DECK  OF  A  SAGUENAY 
STEAM-BOAT. 

INTEGRAL  were  we,  in  our  old  existence  ; 
Separate  beings,  individually : 

Now  are  our  entities  blended,  fused  and  foundered  - 
We  are  one  person. 

We  are  not  mortals,  we  are  not  celestials, 
We  are  not  birds,  the  upper  ether  cleaving, 
We  are  a  retrogression  toward  the  monad  : 
We  are  Cook's  Tourists. 


All  ways  we  follow  him  who  holds  the  guide-book : 
All  things  we  look  at,  with  bedazzled  optics ; 
Sad  are  our  hearts,  because  the  vulgar  rabble 
Call  us  the  Cookies. 


ELSEWHERE. 

Happy  the  man  who,  by  his  cheerful  fireside, 
Says  to  the  partner  of  his  joys  and  sorrows  : 
"  Anna  Maria,  let  us  go  to-morrow 
Out  for  an  airing." 

Him  to  Manhattan,  or  the  Beach  of  Brighton, 
Gaily  he  hieth,  or  if,  fate-accursed, 
Lives  he  in  Boston,  still  he  may  betake  him 
Daown  to  Nantasket. 

Happy  the  mortal  free  and  independent, 
Master  of  the  mainspring  of  his  own  volition  ! 
Look  on  us  with  the  eye  of  sweet  compassion  : 
We  are  Cook's  Tourists. 


A   CAMPAIGN   TORCH. 

I   BLAZED  like  a  meteor  through  the  night 
In  the  great  parade  of  the  great  campaign, 
A  smoke-tailed  comet  of  yellow  light 

I  wavered  and  sputtered  through  wind  and  rain. 
High  over  the  surging  crowd  I  tossed, 

A  beacon  of  battle,  nickering  free  ; 
And  now  the  contest  is  gained  and  lost, 
And  victor  and  victim  are  one  to  me. 

Ah,  never  again  shall  my  dinted  sides 

Ring  responsive  when,  sharp  and  clear, 
Comes  up  from  the  surging  human  tides 

The  rousing  sound  of  the  party  cheer. 
Ah,  never  again  shall  my  oily  blaze 

Blow  hither  and  thither,  and  fail  and  flare, 
When  a  thousand  masculine  marchers  raise 

Their  "TlGAHl"  rending  the  midnight  air. 

57 


ELSEWHERE. 

And  never  again  shall  that  bright  blaze  sink, 

When  a  sudden  silence  comes  over  the  crowd ; 
When  procession  and  people,  pausing,  think, 

And  even  a  heart-beat  seems  too  loud. 
When  amid  the  revel  of  fire  and  noise 

Comes  a  thought  of  the  days  that  were  dull  and  dread, 
And  through  these  avenues  marched  the  "Boys" 

Who  to-day  are  heroes  —  or  heroes  dead. 

When  the  fingers  that  hold  me  grip  more  slack, 

When  the  rabble  ceases,  a  space,  to  rave  ; 
And  men's  minds  travel  a  score  years  back, 

And  the  faces  I  light  grow  suddenly  grave ; 
When  only  the  sound  of  the  halting  feet 

Like  a  vanishing  rain-fall  patters  past, 
With  a  muffled  fall  away  down  the  street, 

And  the  thundering  music  stops  at  last ; 

When  even  the  buncombe  orator,  high 

On  the  flag-draped  stand,  as  he  looks  around 
Finds  his  breath  come  short  and  his  throat  grow  dry, 

While  his  saw-edged  voice  has  a  husky  sound ; 
Feeling,  for  once  in  his  life,  afraid ; 

Remembering  —  ay,  he  remembered  then! 
That  statecraft  is  not  a  tricky  trade, 

That  he  deals  with  the  honor  and  hopes  of  men. 
58 


ELSEWHERE. 

No  more  my  spirit  of  flame  shall  thrill 
As  then  :   no  more  shall  it  leap  and  play 

When  the  moment's  madness  masters  the  will, 
And  the  roaring  column  marches  away. 

***** 

No  more  !     By  November's  night-winds  fanned, 
In  the  gusty  lee  of  a  Bowery  porch, 

You  may  see  me  lighting  a  pea-nut  stand  — 
The  battered  wreck  of  a  Campaign  Torch. 

November,  1880. 


59 


HOME,    SWEET    HOME,    WITH 
VARIATIONS. 

BEING  SUGGESTIONS  OF  THE  VARIOUS  STYLES  IN  WHICH 

AN  OLD  THEME  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  TREATED  BY 

CERTAIN  METRICAL  COMPOSERS. 

FANTASIA. 

I. 

THE    ORIGINAL   THEME,  AS   JOHN   HOWARD    PAYNE 
WROTE  IT  : 

'  \  A^  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 

•*•*•»  Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  's  no  place  like  home ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  not  met  with  elsewhere. 

Home,  Home !  Sweet,  Sweet  Home  ! 
There  's  no  place  like  Home ! 
60 


ELSEWHERE. 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain ! 
Oh,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again  ! 
The  birds  singing  gayly  that  came  at  my  call ! 
Give  me  them !  and  the  peace  of  mind  dearer  than  all. 

Home,  Home  !  Sweet,  Sweet  Home ! 
There  's  no  place  like  Home  ! 


II. 

As    ALGERNON    CHARLES    SWINBURNE   MIGHT    HAVE 
WRAPPED  IT  UP  IN  VARIATIONS: 

[  'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces — ] 

AS  sea-foam  blown  of  the  winds,  as  blossom  of  brine 
that  is  drifted 

Hither  and  yon  on  the  barren  breast  of  the  breeze, 
Though  we  wander   on    gusts  of  a  god's   breath   shaken 

and  shifted, 

The  salt  of  us  stings  and  is  sore  for  the  sobbing  seas. 
For  home's   sake  hungry  at  heart,  we  sicken  in  pillared 

porches. 

Of  bliss  made  sick  for  a  life  that  is  barren  of  bliss, 
For   the   place    whereon    is  a   light    out  of  heaven    that 

sears  not  nor  scorches, 
Nor  elsewhere  than  this. 


ELSEWHERE. 
\An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain  —  ] 

For  here  we  know  shall  no  gold  thing  glisten, 

No  bright  thing  burn,  and  no  sweet  thing  shine ; 
Nor  Love  lower  never  an  ear  to  listen 

To  words  that  work  in  the  heart  like  wine. 
What  time  we  are  set  from  our  land  apart, 
For  pain  of  passion  and  hunger  of  heart, 
Though  we  walk  with  exiles  fame  faints  to  christen, 
Or  sing  at  the  Cytherean's  shrine. 

[VARIATION:  An  exile  from  home — ] 

Whether  with  him  whose  head 
Of  gods  is  honored, 

With  song  made  splendent  in  the  sight  of  men  — 
Whose  heart  most  sweetly  stout, 
From  ravished  France  cast  out, 
Being  firstly  hers,  was  hers  most  wholly  then  — 
Or  where  on  shining  seas  like  wine 
The  dove's  wings  draw  the  drooping  Erycine. 

\Give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage — ] 

For  Joy  finds  Love  grow  bitter, 
And  spreads  his  wings  to  quit  her, 
At  thought  of  birds  chat  twitter 
Beneath  the  roof-tree's  straw  — 
62 


ELSEWHERE. 

Of  birds  that  come  for  calling, 
No  fear  or  fright  appalling, 
When  dews  of  dusk  are  falling, 
Or  daylight's  draperies  draw. 

[  Give  me  them,  and  the  peace  of  mind  — ] 

Give  me  these  things  then  back,  though  the  giving 

Be  at  cost  of  earth's  garner  of  gold; 
There  is  no  life  without  these  worth  living, 

No  treasure  where  these  are  not  told. 
For  the  heart  give  the  hope  that  it  knows  not, 

Give  the  balm  for  the  burn  of  the  breast  — 
For  the  soul  and  the  mind  that  repose  not, 

O,  give  us  a  rest ! 


III. 


As  MR.  FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE  MIGHT  HAVE  WOVEN 

IT  INTO  A  TOUCHING  TALE  OF  A  WESTERN 

GENTLEMAN  IN  A  RED  SHIRT  : 

BROWN  o'  San  Juan, 
Stranger,  I  'm  Brown. 
Come  up  this  mornin'  from  'Frisco  — 
Be'n  a-saltin'  my  specie-stacks  down. 

63 


ELSEWHERE. 

Be'n  a-knockin'  around, 

Fer  a  man  from  San  Juan, 
Putty  consid'able  frequent  — 

Jes'  catch  onter  that  streak  o'  the  dawn  I 


Right  thar  lies  my  home  — 

Right  thar  in  the  red  — 
I  could  slop  over,  stranger,  in  po'try 

Would  spread  out  old  Shakspoke  cold  dead. 


Stranger,  you  freeze  to  this :  there  ain't  no  kinder  gin- 
palace, 

Nor  no  variety-show  lays  over  a  man's  own  rancho. 

Maybe  it  hain't  no  style,  but  the  Queen  in  the  Tower  o* 
London 

Ain't  got  naathin'  I  'd  swop  for  that  house  over  thar 
on  the  hill-side. 


Thar  is  my  ole  gal,  V  the  kids,  'n'  the  rest  o'  my  live 
stock  ; 

Thar  my  Remington  hangs,  and  thar  there  's  a  griddle- 
cake  br'ilin'  — 

For  the  two  of  us,  pard  —  and  thar,  I  allow,  the  heavens 

Smile  more  friendly-like  than  on  any  other  locality. 

64 


ELSEWHERE. 

Stranger,  nowhere  else  I  don't  take  no  satisfaction. 
Gimme     my     ranch,    'n'    them    friendly    old     Shanghai 

chickens  — 
I  brung  the  original  pair  f'm  the  States  in  eighteen-'n'- 

fifty  — 
Gimme  them  and  the  feelin'  of  solid  domestic  comfort. 


Yer  parding,  young  man  — 

But  this  landscape  a  kind 
Er  flickers  —  I  'lew  'twuz  the  po'try  — 

I  thought  thet  my  eyes  hed  gone  blind. 


Take  that  pop  from  my  belt ! 

Hi,  thar  !  —  gimme  yer  han' — 
Or  I  '11  kill  myself — Lizzie! — she  's  left  me  — 

Gone  off  with  a  purtier  man  ! 


Thar,  I  '11  quit  —  the  ole  gal 

An'  the  kids  —  run  away  ! 
I  be  derned  !    Howsomever,  come  in,  pard  — 

The  griddle-cake  's  thar,  anyway. 
6s 


ELSEWHERE. 

IV. 

As  AUSTIN  DOBSON  MIGHT  HAVE  TRANSLATED  IT 

FROM  HORACE,  IF  IT  HAD  EVER  OCCURRED 

TO  HORACE  TO  WRITE  IT  : 

RONDEAU. 

Palatiis  in  remotis  voluptates 
Si  quaeris     .     .     . 

—  FLACCUS,  Q.  HORATIUS,  Carmina,  Lib.  V:  i. 

Af  home  alone,  O  Nomades, 
Although  Maecenas'  marble  frieze 
Stand  not  between  you  and  the  sky, 
Nor  Persian  luxury  supply 
Its  rosy  surfeit,  find  ye  ease. 

Tempt  not  the  far  ^gean  breeze ; 
With  home-made  wine  and  books  that  please, 
To  duns  and  bores  the  door  deny 
At  home,  alone. 

Strange  joys  may  lure.     Your  deities 
Smile  here  alone.    Oh,  give  me  these : 
Low  eaves,  where  birds  familiar  fly, 
And  peace  of  mind,  and,  fluttering  by, 
My  Lydia's  graceful  draperies, 

At  home,  alone. 

66 


ELSEWHERE. 
V. 

AS  IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  CONSTRUCTED  IN  1744, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,  AT   19,  WRITING  THE 

FIRST  STANZA,  AND  ALEXANDER  POPE, 

AT  52,  THE  SECOND  : 

HOME  !  at  the  word,  what  blissful  visions  rise ; 
Lift  us  from  earth,  and  draw  toward  the  skies  I 
'Mid  mirag'd  towers,  or  meretricious  joys, 
Although  we  roam,  one  thought  the  mind  employs  : 
Or  lowly  hut,  good  friend,  or  loftiest  dome, 
Earth  knows  no  spot  so  holy  as  our  Home. 
There,  where  affection  warms  the  father's  breast, 
There  is  the  spot  of  heav'n  most  surely  blest. 
Howe'er  we  search,  though  wandering  with  the  wind 
Through  frigid  Zembla,  or  the  heats  of  Ind, 
Not  elsewhere  may  we  seek,  nor  elsewhere  know, 
The  light  of  heav'n  upon  our  dark  below. 

When  from  our  dearest  hope  and  haven  reft, 
Delight  nor  dazzles,  nor  is  luxury  left, 
We  long,  obedient  to  our  nature's  law, 
To  see  again  our  hovel  thatched  with  straw : 
See  birds  that  know  our  avenaceous  store 
Stoop  to  our  hand,  and  thence  repleted  soar : 
But,  of  all  hopes  the  wanderer's  soul  that  share, 
His  pristine  peace  of  mind  's  his  final  prayer. 
67 


ELSEWHERE. 
VI. 

As  WALT  WHITMAN  MIGHT  HAVE  WRITTEN  ALL 
AROUND  IT: 


YOU  over  there,  young  man  with  the  guide-book,  red- 
bound,  covered  flexibly  with  red  linen, 
Come  here,  I  want  to  talk  with  you;  I,  Walt,  the  Man- 

hattanese,  citizen  of  these  States,  call  you. 
Yes,  and  the  courier,  too,  smirking,  smug-mouthed,  with 

oil'd  hair ;  a  garlicky  look  about  him  generally ;  him, 

too,  I  take  in,  just  as  I  would  a  coyote,  or  a  king,  or  a 

toad-stool,  or  a  ham-sandwich,  or  anything  or  anybody 

else  in  the  world. 
Where  are  you  going  ? 
You  want  to  see  Paris,  to  eat  truffles,  to  have  a  good  time ; 

in  Vienna,  London,  Florence,  Monaco,  to  have  a  good 

time  ;  you  want  to  see  Venice. 
Come  with  me.     I  will  give  you  a  good  time ;   I  will  give 

you  all  the  Venice  you  want,  and  most  of  the  Paris. 
I,  Walt,  I  call  to  you.     I  am  all  on  deck  !    Come  and  loafe 

with  me  !     Let  me  tote  you  around  by  your  elbow  and 

show  you  things. 
You  listen  to  my  ophicleide ! 
Home  ! 


ELSEWHERE. 

Home,  I  celebrate.     I  elevate  my  fog-whistle,  inspir'd  by 

the  thought  of  home. 
Come  in  !  —  take  a  front  seat ;  the  jostle  of  the  crowd  not 

minding ;  there  is  room  enough  for  all  of  you. 
This  is  my  exhibition  —  it  is  the  greatest  show  on  earth  — 

there  is  no  charge  for  admission. 
All  you  have  to  pay  me  is  to  take  in  my  romanza. 


2. 


1.  The   brown-stone    house  ;     the    father    coming    home 
worried  from  a  bad  day's  business ;  the  wife  meets  him 
in   the   marble-pav'd  vestibule  ;    she  throws   her   arms 
about  him ;  she  presses  him  close  to  her ;  she  looks  him 
full  in  the  face  with  affectionate  eyes ;  the  frown  from 
his  brow  disappearing. 

Darling,  she    says,  Johnny  has  fallen  down   and  cut  his 
head ;  the  cook  is  going  away,  and  the  boiler  leaks. 

2.  The  mechanic's  dark  little  third-story  room,  seen  in  a 
flash   from    the    Elevated    Railway   train  ;    the   sewing- 
machine  in  a  corner ;  the  small  cook-stove ;  the  whole 
family  eating  cabbage  around  a  kerosene  lamp ;  of  the 
clatter   and   roar   and    groaning  wail   of  the   Elevated 
train  unconscious ;  of  the  smell  of  the  cabbage  uncon 
scious. 

69 


ELSEWHERE. 

Me,  passant,  in  the  train,  of  the  cabbage  not  quite  so 
unconscious. 

3.  The  French   flat ;    the   small   rooms,  all  right-angles, 
unindividual  ;    the    narrow    halls ;     the    gaudy    cheap 
decorations  everywhere. 

The  janitor  and  the  cook  exchanging  compliments  up  and 
down  the  elevator-shaft ;  the  refusal  to  send  up  more 
coal,  the  solid  splash  of  the  water  upon  his  head,  the 
language  he  sends  up  the  shaft,  the  triumphant  laughter 
of  the  cook,  to  her  kitchen  retiring. 

4.  The  widow's  small  house  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city ; 
the  widow's  boy  coming  home  from  his  first  day  down 
town  ;  he  is  flushed  with  happiness  and  pride  ;  he  is  no 
longer  a  school-boy,  he  is  earning  money ;  he  takes  on 
the  airs  of  a  man  and  talks  learnedly  of  business. 

5.  The  room  in  the  third-class  boarding-house  ;  the  mean 
little  hard-coal  fire,  the  slovenly  Irish  servant-girl  mak 
ing  it,  the  ashes  on  the  hearth,  the  faded  furniture,  the 
private  provender  hid  away  in  the  closet,   the  dreary 
back-yard  out  the  window ;  the  young  girl  at  the  glass, 
with  her  mouth  full  of  hair-pins,  doing  up  her  hair  to 
go  down-stairs  and  flirt  with  the  young  fellows  in  the 
parlor. 

6.  The  kitchen  of  the  old  farm-house  ;  the  young  convict 
just  return'd  from  prison  —  it  was  his  first  offense,  and 
the  judges  were  lenient  to  him. 


ELSEWHERE. 

He  is  taking  his  first  meal  out  of  prison  ;  he  has  been  re- 
ceiv'd  back,  kiss'd,  encourag'd  to  start  again  ;  his  lungs, 
his  nostrils  expand  with  the  big  breaths  of  free  air ;  with 
shame,  with  wonderment,  with  a  trembling  joy,  his  heart 
too  expanding. 

The  old  mother  busies  herself  about  the  table  ;  she  has 
ready  for  him  the  dishes  he  us'd  to  like  ;  the  father  sits 
with  his  back  to  them,  reading  the  newspaper,  the  news 
paper  shaking  and  rustling  much  ;  the  children  hang 
wondering  around  the  prodigal  —  they  have  been  cau- 
tion'd  :  Do  not  ask  where  our  Jim  has  been  ;  only  say  you 
are  glad  to  see  him. 

The  elder  daughter  is  there,  pale-fac'd,  quiet ;  her  young 
man  went  back  on  her  four  years  ago ;  his  folks  would 
not  let  him  marry  a  convict's  sister.  She  sits  by  the 
window,  sewing  on  the  children's  clothes,  the  clothes  not 
only  patching  up ;  her  hunger  for  children  of  her  own 
invisibly  patching  up. 

The  brother  looks  up  ;  he  catches  her  eye,  he  fearful, 
apologetic  ;  she  smiles  back  at  him,  not  reproachfully 
smiling,  with  loving  pretense  of  hope  smiling — it  is  too 
much  for  him;  he  buries  his  face  in  the  folds  of  the 
mother's  black  gown. 

7.  The  best  room  of  the  house,  on  the  Sabbath  only 
open'd ;  the  smell  of  horse-hair  furniture  and  mahog 
any  varnish ;  the  ornaments  on  the  what-not  in  the 
71 


ELSEWHERE. 

corner ;  the  wax  fruit,  dusty,  sunken,  sagged  in,  con 
sumptive-looking,  under  a  glass  globe  ;  the  sealing-wax 
imitation  of  coral ;  the  cigar  boxes  with  shells  plastered 
over ;  the  perforated  card-board  motto. 

The  kitchen ;  the  housewife  sprinkling  the  clothes  for  the 
fine  ironing  to-morrow  —  it  is  Third-day  night,  and  the 
plain  things  are  already  iron'd,  now  in  cupboards,  in 
drawers  stowed  away. 

The  wife  waiting  for  the  husband  —  he  is  at  the  tavern, 
jovial,  carousing ;  she,  alone  in  the  kitchen  sprinkling 
clothes  —  the  little  red  wood  clock  with  peaked  top,  with 
pendulum  wagging  behind  a  pane  of  gayly  painted  glass, 
strikes  twelve. 

The  sound  of  the  husband's  voice  on  the  still  night  air  — 
he  is  singing:  We  won't  go  home  till  morning!  — 
the  wife  arising,  toward  the  wood-shed  hastily  going, 
stealthily  entering,  the  voice  all  the  time  coming  nearer, 
inebriate,  chantant. 

The  wood-shed ;  the  club  behind  the  door  of  the  wood 
shed  ;  the  wife  annexing  the  club ;  the  husband  ap 
proaching,  always  inebriate,  chantant. 

The  husband  passing  the  door  of  the  wood-shed  ;  the  club 
over  his  head,  now  with  his  head  in  contact ;  the  sudden 
cessation  of  the  song ;  the  temperance  pledge  signed  the 
next  morning  ;  the  benediction  of  peace  over  the  domes 
tic  foyer  temporarily  resting. 
72 


ELSEWHERE. 

3- 

I  sing  the  soothing  influences  of  home. 

You,  young   man,  thoughtlessly  wandering,  with  courier, 

with  guide-book  wandering, 

You  hearken  to  the  melody  of  my  steam-calliope. 
Yawp  ! 


73 


ULTIMA  THULE 


FORTY. 

IN  the  heyday  of  my  years,  when  I  thought  the  world 
was  young, 

And  believed  that  I  was  old  —  at  the  very  gates  of  Life — 
It  seemed  in  every  song  the  birds  of  heaven  sung 
That  I  heard  the  sweet  injunction :    "  Go  get  thee  a 
wife  !  " 

And  within  the  breast  of  youth  woke  a  secret  sweet  desire  ; 

For  Love  spoke  in  that  carol  his  first  mysterious  word, 
That  to-day  through  ashen  years  kindles  memory  into  fire, 

Though  the  birds  are  dead  that  sang  it,  and  the  heart 
is  old  that  heard. 

I  have  watched  my  youth's  blue  heavens  flush  to  angry, 

brooding  red, 
And  again  the  crimson  palsied   in  a  dull,  unpregnant 

gloom ; 
I  am  older  than  some  sorrows ;  I  have  watched  by  Pleasure 

dead ; 

I  have  seen  Hope  grow  immortal  at  the  threshold  of 
the  tomb. 

77 


ULTIMA    THULE. 

Through  the  years  by  turns  that   gave  me  now  curses, 

now  caresses, 
I  have  fought  a  fight  with  Fortune  wherein  Love  hath 

had  no  part ; 
To-day,  when  peace  hard-conquered  ripe  years  and  weary 

blesses, 

Will  my  fortieth  summer  pardon  twenty  winters  to  my 
heart  ? 


When  the  spring-tide  verdure  darkens  to  the  summer's 

deeper  glories, 

And  in  the  thickening  foliage  doth  the  year  its  life  renew, 
Will   to  me    the  forests  whisper   once    more   their   wind- 
learnt  stories? 

Will   the   birds   their  message  bring   me  from  out  the 
heaven  of  blue  ? 


Will  the  wakened  world  sing  for  me  the  old  enchanted 

song  — 
Touch  the  underflow  of  love  that,  through  all  the  toil 

and  strife, 
Has  only  grown  the  stronger   as   the  years   passed   lone 

and  long  ? 

Shall  I  learn  the  will  of  Heaven  is  to  get  me  a  wife  ? 
78 


ULTIMA    THULE. 

The   boy's   heart  yearns  for  freedom,  he  walks   hand-in- 
hand  with  pleasure ; 

Made  bright  with  wine  and  kisses,  he  sees  the  face  of  Life ; 
He  would  make  the  world  a  pleasaunce  for  a  love  that  knows 

not  measure; 

But  the  man  seeks  Heaven,  and  finds  it  in  the  bosom 
of  his  wife. 


79 


STRONG   AS   DEATH. 


O    DEATH,  when  thou  shalt  come  to  me 
From  out  thy  dark,  where  she  is  now, 
Come  not  with  graveyard  smell  on  thee, 
Or  withered  roses  on  thy  brow. 


Come  not,  O  Death,  with  hollow  tone, 
And  soundless  step,  and  clammy  hand — 

Lo,  I  am  now  no  less  alone 

Than  in  thy  desolate,  doubtful  land ; 


But  with  that  sweet  and  subtle  scent 
That  ever  clung  about  her  (such 

As  with  all  things  she'  brushed  was  blent) ; 
And  with  her  quick  and  tender  touch. 
80 


ULTIMA   THULE. 

With  the  dim  gold  that  lit  her  hair, 

Crown  thyself,  Death ;  let  fall  thy  tread 

So  light  that  I  may  dream  her  there, 
And  turn  upon  my  dying  bed. 


And  through  my  chilling  veins  shall  flame 
My  love,  as  though  beneath  her  breath ; 

And  in  her  voice  but  call  my  name, 
And  I  will  follow  thee,  O  Death. 


81 


DEAF. 

A i  to  a  bird's  song  she  were  listening, 
Her  beautiful  head  is  ever  sidewise  bent ; 
Her  questioning  eyes  lift  up  their  depths  intent  — 
She,  who  will  never  hear  the  wild-birds  sing. 
My  words  within  her  ears'  cold  chambers  ring 
Faint,  with  the  city's  murmurous  sub-tones  blent; 
Though  with  such  sounds  as  suppliants  may  have  sent 
To  high-throned  goddesses,  my  speech  takes  wing. 

Not  for  the  side-poised  head's  appealing  grace 
I  gaze,  nor  hair  where  fire  in  shadow  lies  — 

For  her  this  world's  unhallowed  noises  base 
Melt  into  silence  ;  not  our  groans,  our  cries, 

Our  curses,  reach  that  high-removed  place 
Where  dwells  her  spirit,  innocently  wise. 


LES    MORTS    VONT    VITE. 

7 ES  morts  vont  vite  !  Ay,  for  a  little  space 
/  ^  We  miss  and  mourn  them,  fallen  from  their  place ; 

To  take  our  portion  in  their  rest  are  fain ; 

But  by-and-by,  having  wept,  press  on  again, 
Perchance  to  win  their  laurels  in  the  race. 

What  man  would  find  the  old  in  the  new  love's  face  ? 
Seek  on  the  fresher  lips  the  old  kisses'  trace? 
For  withered  roses  newer  blooms  disdain  ? 
Les  morts  vont  vite/ 

But  when  disease  brings  thee  in  piteous  case, 
Thou  shalt  thy  dead  recall,  and  thy  ill  grace 

To  them  for  whom  remembrance  plead  in  vain. 

Then,  shuddering,  think,  while  thy  bed-fellow  Pain 
Clasps  thee  with  arms  that  cling  like  Death's  embrace : 
Les  morts  vont  vite  ! 


DISASTER. 


A  ROAR  of  voices  and  a  tottering  town, 
A  dusty  ruin  of  high  walls  crumbling  down, 


A  wild,  blind  hurrying  of  men  mad  with  fear, 
Rushing  from  death  to  death  —  above,  the  clear, 

Calm,  pitiless,  lurid  orange  of  the  sky, 
Where  one  affrighted  vulture  dares  to  fly. 

On  either  side  an  ocean's  overflow ; 

And  fume  and  thunder  of  hid  fires  below. 

*  *  * 

Then,  when   the   next  morn  breaks,  fair,  heartless, 

bland, 
The  young  west  wind  strews  a  dead  world  with  sand  : 

Follows  the  broad  and  jagged  swath  where  Fate 
Has  mown  a  thousand  corpses  mutilate. 
84 


ULTIMO   THULE. 

And  on  the  writhen  faces  bends  to  see 
Unspeakable  fear,  defiance,  agony. 

Sees  life's  vain  protest  turned  to  impotent  stone, 
Dumbly  reproachful  still,  and  sees,  alone, 

Smiling  in  death,  serene,  sweet,  undistressed, 
One  woman  with  a  cancer  at  her  breast. 


SEPTEMBER. 

RONDEAU. 

THE  Summer's  gone  —  how  did  it  go? 
And  where  has  gone  the  dogwood's  snow? 
The  air  is  sharp  upon  the  hill, 
And  with  a  tinkle  sharp  and  chill 
The  icy  little  brooklets  flow. 

What  is  it  in  the  season,  though, 
Brings  back  the  days  of  old,  and  so 
Sets  memory  recalling  still 

The  Summers  gone  ? 

Why  are  my  days  so  dark  ?  for  lo ! 

The  maples  with  fresh  glory  glow, 

Fair  shimmering  mists  the  valleys  fill, 
The  keen  air  sets  the  blood  a-thrill  — 

Ah !  now  that  you  are  gone,  I  know 

The  Summer  's  gone. 

86 


THEN. 

WHEN,  moved  by  sudden  strange  desires, 
And  innocent  shames  and  sweet  distress, 
Your  eyes  grow  large  and  moist,  your  lips 
Pout  to  a  kiss,  while  virgin  fires 

Run  flushing  to  your  finger  tips  — 
Then  I  will  tell  you  what  you  guess. 


THE   APPEAL   TO   HAROLD.3 

HARO  !  Haro  ! 
Judge  now  betwixt  this  woman  and  me, 

Haro! 

She  leaves  me  bond,  who  found  me  free. 
Of  love  and  hope  she  hath  drained  me  dry  — 
Yea,  barren  as  a  drought-struck  sky; 
She  hath  not  left  me  tears  for  weeping, 
Nor  will  my  eyelids  close  in  sleeping. 
1  have  gathered  all  my  life's-blood  up  — 

Haro! 
She  hath  drunk  and  thrown  aside  the  cup. 


ULTIMA   THULE. 

Shall  she  not  give  me  back  my  days  ? 

Haro! 

I  made  them  perfect  for  her  praise. 
There  was  no  flower  in  all  the  brake 
I  found  not  fairer  for  her  sake ; 
There  was  no  sweet  thought  I  did  not  fashion 
For  aid  and  servant  to  my  passion. 
Labor  and  learning  worthless  were, 

Haro! 
Save  that  I  made  them  gifts  for  her. 

Shall  she  not  give  me  back  my  nights  ? 

Haro! 

Give  me  sweet  sleep  for  brief  delights? 
Lo,  in  the  night's  wan  mid  I  lie, 
And  ghosts  of  hours  that  are  dead  go  by : 
Hours  of  a  love  that  died  unshriven ; 
Of  a  love  in  change  for  my  manhood  given : 
She  caressed  and  slew  my  soul's  white  truth, 

Haro! 
Shall  she  not  give  me  back  my  youth  ? 

Haro!  Haro! 

Tell  thou  me  not  of  a  greater  judge, 

Haro! 

It  is  He  who  hath  my  sin  in  grudge. 
Yea,  from  God  I  appeal  to  thee ; 


ULTIMA    THULE. 

God  hath  not  part  or  place  for  me. 
Thou  who  hast  sinned,  judge  thou  my  sinning : 
I  have  staked  my  life  for  a  woman's  winning ; 
She  hath  stripped  me  of  all  save  remembering — 

Haro! 
Right  thou  me,  right  thou  me,  Harold  the  King  ! 


00 


TO   A   DEAD   WOMAN. 

NOT  a  kiss  in  life ;  but  one  kiss,  at  life's  end, 
I  have  set  on  the  face  of  Death  in  trust  for  thee. 
Through  long  years  keep  it  fresh  on  thy  lips,  O  friend ! 
At  the  gate  of  Silence  give  it  back  to  me. 


THE   OLD   FLAG. 

OFF  with  your  hat  as  the  flag  goes  by ! 
And  let  the  heart  have  its  say; 
You  're  man  enough  for  a  tear  in  your  eye 
That  you  will  not  wipe  away. 

You  're  man  enough  for  a  thrill  that  goes 

To  your  very  finger-tips  — 
Ay !  the  lump  just  then  in  your  throat  that  rose 

Spoke  more  than  your  parted  lips. 

Lift  up  the  boy  on  your  shoulder,  high, 

And  show  him  the  faded  shred  — 
Those  stripes  would  be  red  as  the  sunset  sky 

If  Death  could  have  dyed  them  red. 

The  man  that  bore  it  with  Death  has  lain 

This  twenty  years  and  more ; — 
He  died  that  the  work  should  not  be  vain 

Of  the  men  who  bore  it  before. 
92 


ULTIMA    THULE. 

The  man  that  bears  it  is  bent  and  old, 
And  ragged  his  beard  and  gray, — 

But  look  at  his  eye  fire  young  and  bold, 
At  the  tune  that  he  hears  them  play. 

The  old  tune  thunders  through  all  the  air, 
And  strikes  right  in  to  the  heart; — 

If  ever  it  calls  for  you,  boy,  be  there ! 
Be  there,  and  ready  to  start. 

Off  with  your  hat  as  the  flag  goes  by ! 

Uncover  the  youngster's  head ! 
Teach  him  to  hold  it  holy  and  high, 

For  the  sake  of  its  sacred  dead. 

Evacuation  Day,  1883. 


FROM    A   COUNTING-HOUSE. 

THERE  is  an  hour  when  first  the  westering  sun 
Takes  on  some  forecast  faint  of  future  red ; 
When  from  the  wings  of  weariness  is  shed 
A  spell  upon  us  toilers,  every  one ; 
The  day's  work  lags  a  little,  well-nigh  done ; 
Far  dusky  lofts  through  all  the  close  air  spread 
A  smell  of  eastern  bales;  the  old  clerk's  head 
Nods  by  my  side,  heavy  with  dreams  begun 
In  dear  dead  days  wherein  his  heart  is  tombed. 
But  I  my  way  to  Italy  have  found ; 

Or  wander  where  high  stars  gleam  coldly  through 
The  Alpine  skies ;  or  in  some  nest  perfumed, 
With  soft  Parisian  luxury  set  round, 

Hold  out  my  arms  and  cry  "  At  last !  "  to  you. 


TO    A    HYACINTH    PLUCKED    FOR 
DECORATION    DAY. 

O  FLOWER,  plucked  before  the  dew 
Could  wet  thy  thirsty  petals  blue- 
Grieve  not !  a  dearer  dew  for  thee 
Shall  be  the  tears  of  Memory. 


95 


LONGFELLOW. 

T~"\OET  whose  sunny  span  of  fruitful  years 
1        Outreaches  earth,  whose  voice  within  our  ears 
Grows  silent  —  shall  we  mourn  for  thee  ?    Our  sigh 
Is  April's  breath,  our  grief  is  April's  tears. 


If  this  be  dying,  fair  it  is  to  die : 
Even  as  a  garment  weariness  lays  by, 
Thou  layest  down  life  to  pass,  as  Time  hath  passed, 
From  wintry  rigors  to  a  Springtime  sky. 


Are  there  tears  left  to  give  thee  at  the  last, 
Poet  of  spirits  crushed  and  hearts  down-cast, 
Loved  of  worn  women  who,  when  work  is  done, 
Weep  o'er  thy  page  in  twilights  fading  fast  ? 
96 


ULTIMA    THULE. 

Oh,  tender-toned  and  tender-hearted  one, 
We  give  thee  to  the  season  new  begun  — 
Lay  thy  white  head  within  the  arms  of  Spring — 
Thy  song  had  all  her  shower  and  her  sun. 

Nay,  let  us  not  such  sorrowful  tribute  bring, 
Now  that  thy  lark-like  soul  hath  taken  wing : 
A  grateful  memory  fills  and  more  endears 

The  silence  when  a  bird  hath  ceased  to  sing. 


97 


FOR  THE   FIRST  PAGE  OF  THE   ALBUM 

I    OPEN  this  to  write  for  her 
Within  whose  gates  is  ever  Peace ; 
Beneath  whose  roof  the  wanderer 
Finds  from  his  wayside  cares  release. 

Her  presence  is  in  every  room, 

Her  silent  love  is  everywhere, 
As  pleasant  as  a  soft  perfume, 

As  soothing  as  a  twilight  air. 

No  song  shall  tell  the  friendly  debt 
My  gratitude  were  glad  to  pay ; 

But  here  may  other  singers  set 
The  half  of  what  I  fain  would  say. 

More  sweetly  may  their  songs  be  made, 
Their  lines  in  purer  cadence  fall, 

Yet  none  —  yet  none  leaves  more  unsaid, 
With  truer  wish  to  say  it  all. 

September  10.  1883. 

98 


FAREWELL   TO   SALVINI.4 

APRIL  26ra,  1883. 

ALTHOUGH  a  curtain  of  the  salt  sea-mist 
IJL     May  fall  between  the  actor  and  our  eyes  — 
Although  he  change  for  dear  and  softer  skies 
These  that  the  sun  has  yet  'but  coyly  kissed  — 
Although  the  voice  to  which  we  loved  to  list 
Fail  ere  the  thunder  of  our  plaudits  dies  — 
Although  he  parts  from  us  in  gracious  wise, 
With  grateful  memory  left  his  eulogist  — 
His  best  is  with  us  still. 

His  perfect  art 
Has  held  us  'twixt  a  heart-throb  and  a  tear — 

Cheating  our  souls  to  passionate  belief. 
And  in  his  greatness  we  have  now  some  part  — 
We  have  been  courtiers  of  the  crownless  Lear, 
And  partners  in  Othello's  mighty  grief. 


ON  READING  A   POET'S  FIRST   BOOK. 

THIS  is  a  breath  of  summer  wind 
That  comes — we  know  not  how — that  goes 
As  softly, — leaving  us  behind 

Pleased  with  a  smell  of  vine  and  rose. 


Poet,  shall  this  be  all  thy  word? 

Blow  on  us  with  a  bolder  breeze; 
Until  we  rise,  as  having  heard 

The  sob,  the  song  of  far-off  seas. 

Blow  in  thy  shell  until  thou  draw, 

From  inner  whorls  where  still  they  sleep, 

The  notes  unguessed  of  love  and  awe, 
And  all  thy  song  grow  full  and  deep. 


ULTIMA    THUIE. 

Feeble  may  be  the  scanty  phrase  — 

Thy  dream  a  dream  tongue  never  spake - 

Yet  shall  thy  note,  through  doubtful  days, 
Swell  stronger  for  Endeavor's  sake. 

As  Jacob,  wrestling  through  the  night, 
Felt  all  his  muscles  strengthen  fast 

With  wakening  strength,  and  met  the  light 
Blessed  and  strong,  though  overcast. 


FEMININE. 

SHE  might  have  known  it  in  the  earlier  Spring, 
That  all  my  heart  with  vague  desire  was  stirred ; 
And,  ere  the  Summer  winds  had  taken  wing, 
I  told  her ;  but  she  smiled  and  said  no  word. 

The  Autumn's  eager  hand  his  red  gold  grasped, 
And  she  was  silent ;  till  from  skies  grown  drear 

Fell  soft  one  fine,  first  snow-flake,  and  she  clasped 
My  neck  and  cried,   "  Love,  we  have  lost  a  year ! " 


REDEMPTION. 

A~>  to  the  drunkard  who  at  morn  doth  wake 
Are  the  clear  waters  of  the  virgin  spring 
Wherewith  he  bathes  his  eyes  that  burn  and  sting 
And  his  intolerable  thirst  doth  slake, 
So  is  the  thought  of  thee  to  me,  who  break 
One  sober  moment,  sick  and  shuddering, 
From  all  my  life's  unworthiness,  to  fling 
Me  at  thy  memory's  feet,  and  for  Love's  sake 
Pray  that  thy  peace  may  enter  in  my  soul. 

Love,  thou  hast  heard !  My  veins  more  calmly  flow — 

The  madness  of  the  night  is  passed  away — 
Fire  of  false  eyes,  thirst  of  the  cursed  bowl — 
I  drink  deep  of  thy  purity,  and  lo  ! 

Thou  hast  given  me  new  heart  to  meet  the  day. 


103 


TRIUMPH. 

E    dawn   came    in   through   the   bars   of  the 
1        blind,— 
And  the  winter's  dawn  is  gray, — 
And  said  —  However  you  cheat  your  mind, 
The  hours  are  flying  away. 

A  ghost  of  a  dawn,  and  pale  and  weak  — 

Has  the  sun  a  heart,  I  said, 
To  throw  a  morning  flush  on  the  cheek 

Whence  a  fairer  flush  has  fled  ? 

As  a  gray  rose-leaf  that  is  fading  white 
Was  the  cheek  where  I  set  my  kiss  ; 

And  on  that  side  of  the  bed  all  night 
Death  had  watched,  and  I  on  this. 

I  kissed  her  lips,  they  were  half  apart, 

Yet  they  made  no  answering  sign ; 
Death's  hand  was  on  her  failing  heart, 

And  his  eyes  said  —  "She  is  mine." 
104 


ULTIMA    THULE. 

I  set  my  lips  on  the  blue-veined  lid, 
Half-veiled  by  her  death-damp  hair; 

And  oh,  for  the  violet  depths  it  hid, 
And  the  light  I  longed  for  there ! 

Faint  day  and  the  fainter  life  awoke, 

And  the  night  was  overpast  ^ 
And  I  said  —  "Though  never  in  life  you  spoke, 

Oh,  speak  with  a  look  at  last !  " 

For  the  space  of  a  heart-beat  fluttered  her  breath, 

As  a  bird's  wing  spread  to  flee ; 
She  turned  her  weary  arms  to  Death, 

And  the  light  of  her  eyes  to  me. 


TO   HER. 

r~\ERCHANCE  the  spell  that  now  must  part 

Our  lives  may  yet  be  broken  ; 
And  then  your  sweet  unconscious  heart 

May  know  my  love  unspoken. 
Perchance  the  jealous  seal  of  Time 
May  break  in  some  far  season ; 
And  you  will  read  this  book  of  rhyme, 
And  know  the  rhyme's  dear  reason. 

How  long  ago  the  song  began  ! 

How  lonely  was  the  singer, 
Whose  mistress  never  thought  to  scan 

The  lines  he  dared  to  bring  her ! 
Oh,  will  you  ever  read  it  true, 

'When  all  the  rhymes  are  ended  — 
How  much  of  Hope,  of  Love,  of  You, 

With  every  verse  was  blended. 

Who  knows?     But  when  the  bars  shall  fall 

That  set  our  souls  asunder, 
May  you,  at  last,  in  hearing  all, 

Feel  Love  grow  out  of  Wonder ; 
And  may  the  song  be  glad  as  when 

The  boy's  fresh  voice  commenced  it  ; 
And  may  my  heart  be  beating  then, 

To  feel  your  own  against  it ! 
1 06 


NOTES 


NOTES. 


i  "  There  was  a  vague  murmur  in  the  air  of  little  brooks,  that  one  might  fancy  had 
lost  their  way  in  the  darkness,  and  were  whispering  together  how  they  should  get 
home." 

"  In  the  Distance,"  by  G.  P.  Lathrop. 


*  The  only  authority  I  have  for  calling  this  '  'A  Real  Romance' ' 
is  the  following,  clipped  from  a  stray  newspaper  in  '77  or  '78  : 

"A  school-girl  at  Bellefontaine,  Ohio,  offended  her  boy  lover,  and  he  refused  to 
speak  to  her.  She  passed  a  note  to  him,  asking  forgiveness,  but  he  refused.  She 
wrote  to  him  again,  saying  that  she  would  kill  herself  if  he  did  not  make  up  ;  and  he 
replied  that  he  would  be  glad  to  go  to  her  funeral.  She  then  began  her  suicidal  efforts 
by  drinking  a  bottle  of  red  ink,  which  only  made  her  sick.  A  bottle  of  black  ink  had 
no  deadlier  effect.  Finally,  she  cut  her  throat  with  a  knife,  but  not  fatally,  though  she 
made  a  deep  and  dangerous  gash." 


3Like  the  Roman  citizen's  right  of  appeal  to  Caesar,  there  was, 
according  to  some  authorities,  a  supreme  right  of  appeal  to 
Harold  of  Normandy.  It  was  invoked  by  crying  "  Haro !  Haro  ! 
Haro!"  In  a  modified  form,  the  legal  tradition  still  survives, 
I  believe,  in  some  of  the  Channel  Islands. 

4  Read  at  the  farewell  dinner  to  Salvini,  New- York,  April 
a6th,  1883. 

109 


y  ,  /  y  »- '  «^- 


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